


How (Not) To Get a Boyfriend

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arts & Crafts, Baz Runs a Political Channel, Educational, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Alternating, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Friendship, Penny Runs an Educational Page, Politics Talk, Pride, Rivalry, Simon's Channel is Just Chaotic, Slow Burn, Social Media, YouTube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-09-19 08:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: I pull my brows together when I look away, just for emphasis, and slip my mobile into my pocket. “Not only,” I counter, going for another pointed sip and holding back a cringe as I point at her, going on. “And it’s only because he’s full of himself. I don’t need, nor do I want to hear his halfhearted ramblings on something that he won’t have any affect on.”“Then why do you have him on post-notifs?”I try to look offended, but I just stare, mouth hanging open. “Maybe I like to keep a keen eye on him.”-Youtube's a buzzing, content-creating platform, where people from all walks of life can create and share. Simon Snow and Baz Pitch are on a rise at two very different angle, but by the coincidence of shared people, they clash and come together at all the right (and wrong) times.[FIC CURRENTLY ON INDEFINITE HIATUS]





	1. I Fell In Love With My Rival (NOT CLICKBAIT!!!)

**Author's Note:**

> quick comment: if this name popped up and you had me subscribed but you don't recognize it, fear not! i'm "cynosure_phrases", but i just changed my username to match my tumblr name (old username was something i made in middle school... didn't quite vibe anymore).

**SIMON**

I don’t really remember how it started.

Well, that’s a lie. I remember  _ starting _ it. I remember setting up my mobile, using a mirror to make sure it was at the right angle (using random little things like Penny’s tiny bottles of face cleansers and such to keep it propped, despite them continuously slipping). I remember it being half past 3 in the morning on a Thursday right before a final. I wasn’t studying. I can’t study--I can’t  _ make _ myself study, I should say. Never could. And, I remember laying out craft scissors, glitter glue tubes, googly eyes, and finding old class notes to go to town on.

I remember the build up.

I remember the upload, and I remember thinking nothing of it.

But I don’t remember the  _ rise _ .

More to this, I don’t really know  _ why _ anyone really watches my videos. I think it’s sort of dumb to watch a man now climbing further into his mid-to-late twenties sitting on his living room floor, working in a ranging the state of his soberness from completey dry to beyond wrecked, and doing shitty primary school crafts.

But then again,  _ I’m _ the man making them, so I guess I’m not particularly the one to judge on this front. 

Part of me still really doesn’t connect the popularity with myself--like it’s been Penny’s doing. Which, she says, might be partially true. She already had a decent enough following, but I’m on a completely different genre. She does educative videos, and she stays popular because they’re on current events topics (defines hot topics, explains what a certain celebrity is in trouble for, yada yada). I call her the cliffnotes of the ever-rolling social media 15 minutes of fame. She asks me if I’ve ever needed to read a book with cliffnotes, and I didn’t have much defense besides  _ “You know, I was an English minor. _ ” ( _ “For the first year, yeah. _ ” “ _ Still, had a year of it _ .”)

But for me? I don’t do anything new or appealing.

I think I might be a handsome face (which, in all honesty, would be a nice brag, if I could actually maintain a relationship). Or maybe it’s because I can get a bit funny, especially when I’m plastered. And there’s never really any  _ instructions _ when I do these things. I have a Pinterest board, a google search option, and a flow of craft store gift cards at my disposal to make shit work.

Or, maybe, I’m just entertaining.

I’m not really confident on that front, but I’ll take what I can get.

I don’t mind it much. People seem to like the videos, and I never mind making them. Brilliant distraction, and surprisingly decent income (especially since crafts require products, so sponsors are easy to get for videos, and I never feel really guilty because I’d have to get shit to use anyway).

Penny gets on my arse about my sleep schedule, though.

“Why can’t you do special editions of Simon’s Arts ‘N Crafts in the morning?” She asks, or more complains, hovering over the kitchen bar with a mug between her hands and her flannel pyjama bottoms on. It’s nearing 1 in the morning now, and I’m just cracking open my second beer. (Don’t actually like them, but they’re tolerable.)

“Aesthetic, Penn.” I cringe after a thick gulp, squeezing my eyes tight. Shit tastes like a gym sock. “Premise of it all to put up a video that looks like a bloke who hasn’t properly slept in 10 years on his floor trying to build a shitty flower crown.”

She’s been a bit fed up with it for a little while, and I can see her point. Insomniatic tendencies aren’t something you particularly want to profit off of, but it pays the bills (and gives me something better to do than stare at my ceiling and try to count sheep into the thousands).

I hear her huff, my back turning to grab my mobile off the counter as I try to chug back a few more gulps.

Thumbing through notifs, I see a post alert for Baz Pitch. Something on Twitter--commenting on the flawed mentality of what socialistic systems are seen as vs what they are, or some other poshly worded bullshit about something that only really matters if you’re taking a secondary school course on politics.

Or if you’re Penny, I guess.

“You’re looking at Baz’s shit again,” she mumbles over her mug, sipping slowly as I glare back.

“What?”

“You get this look on your face--that one where your brows come together and makes you look constipated.”

“Yes, and? What about it?”

She smirks. “Well, you only ever get that when you’re looking at something Baz posted.

I pull my brows together when I look away, just for emphasis, and slip my mobile into my pocket. “Not  _ only _ ,” I counter, going for another pointed sip and holding back a cringe as I point at her, going on. “And it’s only because he’s full of himself. I don’t need, nor do I want to hear his halfhearted ramblings on something that he won’t have any affect on.”

“Then why do you have him on post-notifs?”

I try to look offended, but I just stare, mouth hanging open. “Maybe I like to keep a keen eye on him.”

She hums, unsatisfied.

“Excuse me for wanting to keep track of the man I’ve got an ongoing tiff with.”

“Ongoing tiff? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

I shrug, ignoring that with another shitty gulp.

“Look, Simon, just talk to the bloke. He’s a smart guy, if you give him a second of your time and attention beyond a twitter feud over some dumb shite like his family upbringing.”

“He’s rich, Penn! Guy’s a hypocrite.”

“Maybe,” she gives me a halfhearted shrug, leaning more over the counter. “You’re just mad that he’s got more following on his personal Twitter than you do on your proper Instagram.”

“Of course not.” She’s right, but I won’t dare admit it.

I’ll never admit to being jealous of Basilton fucking Pitch--some bloody political page gone pretty boy vlogging. His main work is only relevant because he talks about shit that’s within the dizzying political-sphere, nothing of which is something I really like to think about (I vote for whoever Penny describes as the best, then hope some other prick doesn’t throw us deeper into the cesspool that is this Brexit nightmare).

But he has his vlogging channel. A popular one, at that. Talks about what he’s reading, where he’s traveling. Skincare routine. Mindless bullshit, that I’ve forced myself to sit through just so I have a proper excuse to go off complaining about him.

Never seen the bloke break a proper smile, though. Not even in fan pictures. He smirks, and he’s got a barking, bitter laugh, but I’ve never heard anything that relates “Joyous” and “Basilton” in a similar sentence.

It’s a wonder he and Penn interact amicably. 

She scoffs at me, sipping her tea slowly as my shoulders slump, beer can held tight enough in my hand that it’s denting in at my fingers. I should probably let go of it.

“Are you gonna help me set up?” I ask, deflating from the conversation and trying to distract with a new one.

“If you need help.”

“Need? No. Want? Yeah.”

She rolls her eyes, settling the mug down onto our countertop anyway before turning to start dragging the lights out of the side closet while I polish off my drink and head to grab my camera and tripod.

I’ve gotten better at this over the years. Swapped majors from social work to media studies, then minored in advertising, once the channel had hit 1k subscribers. Hadn’t quit my dayjob at the cafe until I hit 100k, but the steady rise since hasn’t been bad to us. Penny’s got a decent income, too, and she still decides to work in the school’s library as she’s working on her PhD in Sociology.

The flat’s a better one than the one we’d started in. We’ve even got a guest bedroom (screams disposable income). And, well, nicer equipment. A real sense of seriousness and maturity while we work.

Well, mostly.

I’m speaking as the grown man with a metal cabinet full of crafts supplies.

Business man with craft supplies.

Makes me sound more professional than “Newly 27 year old Youtuber who does nothing of serious impact, other than hoping to make others smile while throwing together terribly made, barely functioning crafts.”

I make my way back into the living room after setting up the camera and wandering back off, arms full of supplies as Penny starts setting up cameras, glancing over her shoulder. “What’d you choose tonight?”

I look down, then plop myself onto the floor and spread out my shit. “Uhh,” I say, shifting through. “I was  _ thinking _ a beer can ghost.”

“Beer can ghost?”

I nod, holding up the gauze and glue. “As a Happy Halloween episode.”

“It’s not even October yet, Si.”

I shrug. “September’s close enough.” I grin, going off to grab my empty beer can and sprawling back out onto the floor. “Want to join in?”

“I think I’ll take a rain check for this episode, thank you.” She smiles teasingly, brushing past and messing my hair a bit as I’m settling myself onto the hardwood floor. I don’t take it harshly; I never take her harshly. I don’t think I’ve got the  _ room _ to take it harshly, given I don’t  _ seriously _ have anyone else in my life besides her (at least on a consistent basis).

“Suit yourself!” I call back, watching her disappear into her bedroom while shutting the door behind herself.

Before going at it, I take and post a quick Instagram picture at the layout in front of me, adding Halloween-themed emojis (so everyone knows I’m serious about wanting to get festive) as the caption.

I sigh and clear up my space, glancing around to make sure the area looks clean-enough, then get up to press start. It takes a second to make my way back and get myself properly situated on the floor, exhaling quietly and collecting my thoughts before shooting my head up and grinning at the camera angled a few feet away and slightly above eyeline with me.

“Hey everyone! Welcome back to Simon’s Arts ‘N Crafts!”

**BAZ**

I don’t understand the hype of Simon Snow.

I never truly have. He feels like he’s the sort of mindless bloke to pull out a guitar at uni and unironically start playing Wonderwall.

Allow me to rephrase; I don’t understand the hype of Simon Snow’s  _ channel _ .

Snow himself, on the other hand, is a different story.

Cheerful smile, rosey cheeks. Curls that stick out at all angles (you’d think he’d try to style them properly, given he’s got the time and money now, but he doesn’t; he looks as disheveled as the day his channel began). Snow’s an utter mess just trying to occupy himself while avoiding other aspects of life, and somehow, for reasons I can’t chalk up to anything but his glittering disposition, he’s popular.

Not  _ too _ popular, no. A couple million popular. Sponsored by major chains popular, due to the spike in young hobbyists trying to “Unleash their inner child” following his lead. But, of course, he donates huge portions to schools, giving them arts supplies and, for some saintly reason, gives to  _ orphanages _ too.

I wonder at times if there’s anything deeper than just a handsome public face and overly generous donor. And, usually, I try to doubt there is, but I can’t quite ignore the occasional sign that Simon Snow may be a saint, and I fucking hate him for it.

I hate him for a number of reasons, starting with “He hates me”, and ending with “He’s gorgeous, and he hates me”.

I scroll down my Instagram feed, then refresh, immediately getting his post as a priority (I feel as though I’d be damned if anyone knew how often I go to simply look at him, or try to snoop through his older pictures to put the pieces together). It’s not much; his lap, which is a pair of grey joggers (Chris, I bet he looks fit in them), mismatched athletic socks, and a pile of half pulled-apart gauze, supplies for paper mache, an emptied beer can, and a sponge brush laying on a disposable plastic tarp. It’s simply captioned with a set of emojis that are  _ definitely _ a few weeks too early.

**baz.pitch** ** Can’t count a calendar, Snow? Not surprised.**

I stare at the comment for a brief moment, jaw clenching and swallowing back the strange, twinge that comes with our either interaction as quickly as it appears before trying to scroll and avoid any further thoughts on the matter. 

It isn’t much longer before a notification drops down, hanging over the top of my screen.

**(baz.pitch)** buncespeaking: Are you still awake, or sleep-commenting?

I snort and tap onto it, letting the direct messaging screen load up.

**baz.pitch: I am awake**

**baz.pitch: Is there something you want, Bunce?**

Penelope Bunce and I interact far more than I’d originally thought we would. At first, when she first reached out, I’d assumed we’d quarrel, given her general harshness brought through her Twitter account, but I soon learned that she and I have a good bit in common. Personal views align, and she’s got a devilishly sharp sense of humour on her (not that I’d ever tell her, of course). Never thought I’d consider her not only an ally, but a friend in this harsh digital age, but I’ve found solace in her conversations.

That, and she teases Snow for me more than I could ever repay her for.

When I say tease, it isn’t quite the taunting I find myself regularly drawn into, but rather the simple name drop can be enough to get him to squirm in place (I know; I’ve seen it through live streams). I’ve never found it in myself to say any of my opinions on Snow to her, but given her intellect, I’d assumed she knows far more about my views of him than what Snow knows himself.

Which, at times, scares me. Nobody should know any vulnerability about me, unless I know equally as much incriminating information on them.

But so far, I haven’t had much a reason to worry.

**(baz.pitch) ** buncespeaking: Do you know when you’ll find yourself in London again?

Interesting question.

Intentionally? Who the fuck knows.

As of recent, my life has consisted of no proper flat (which has begrudgingly left me living in my family’s manor, avoiding a permanent residence) while I hop about the island, then once a month, I spend a week in some various part of Europe. I just see it as trying to squeeze the most out of my life as a pitiful bachelor, but some others (Snow) consider this as me being a privileged arsehole and not wanting to commit to a proper life. (For the record, I regularly donate to LGBTQ+ nonprofits, but you don’t see me flaunting it in my personal work.)

Whatever. He probably hasn’t gotten snogged in the back of a Porsche in Venice during late spring.

Although, admittedly, that wasn’t very fulfilling.

Those trips never quite are.

And, sadly, neither are the men. All looking somewhat of a similar face; square jawed, wide-nosed. Long necks, wide shoulders, and curly hair that I love to tug and hold back.

But none of them are ever named Simon, and none of them hit quite the spot that this damned yearning has held.

Which is, I suppose, why I’m rarely ever in London. I’m not sure what I’d  _ do _ with myself in London, unless I’m there with a purpose. I feel like I might go off the rails and try to actually find Snow without the guidance of some other party. I’d be a walking disaster.

**baz.pitch: Depends on why you’re asking**

**(baz.pitch)** buncespeaking: Well, a couple of reasons.

**(baz.pitch)** buncespeaking: Which all ultimately have the same suggested outcome of us collaborating on a video, and I’m not particularly set on getting myself out to Hampshire to sit in your frankly terrifying mansion.

**(baz.pitch)** buncespeaking: Plus, you can put me out of my misery and finally speak to Simon in person, for once. He’s driving me mad, and at this point, I’d pay for you to just put him to silence in person, for once.

As tempting as it seems, a small part of me worries that Bunce is believing that I’d sock Snow instead of snog him (maybe both are possible, but assaulting someone on their own property is risky at best).

I stare at my screen for a good, long pause, worrying at my lip as her typing pop-up ceases. It’s hard to not leap at opportunities I really wish to take--to just hold my dignity to somewhat of a respectable point.

But Snow crashes any barriers of my real rigidity.

He has for well over a few years now--ever since we were introduced digitally.

I’ve found myself watching his videos, over and over again, and trying to imagine how we’d play about. I like to wonder whatever happened to that pretty girlfriend of his (I’m aware they broke up, but he’s certainly too private to share the rest).

It’s been years since I first heard about Snow, and since then, I can’t quite get him off my mind.

It’s quite dizzying, trying to get Snow off my thoughts. I try to occupy--I try to fulfill. I try to find my way through life without some dull half-rivalry, full-teasing he and I share through out linked lives, but it’s like a drug. Draws me in, making me wish I had more of a good thing while trying to ignore that the good thing isn’t quite good for me, but rather simply a shocking want, prickling under my skin and bringing me back for more.

In all the things I do to occupy myself--to occupy the life I’ve been trying to lead (without success)--Snow’s been my favorite distraction. And I might just have to break through this and meet him, for once.

**baz.pitch: Give me a time and a place and I’ll fit you into my schedule**


	2. #COLLABORATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re offering me a drink as an apology?” I laugh.
> 
> “No, well, yeah. Yes.” He does that sort of half-smile again, this time more deliberately. “Come on, please say yes? Or else my self esteem will shit itself while you and Penny film.”
> 
> “As much as I’d love to see that…”
> 
> “Please…”
> 
> “Alright,” I concede, waving a hand absently towards the living room. “Just, please, not something drenched in glitter. There’s only one time of the year that I’m willing to coat myself in it, and that’s Pride.”
> 
> -
> 
> Baz comes over for a collab with Penny, and first meetings ensue. Civility, hopefully, comes about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hngngngnngnnnnnnggg iknowihaven'tupdatedsincelikeaugustpleasedontyellatme ok that's all  
no yeah college has drained me of my creativity and everything, so. yeah. oops.

**SIMON**

“You did  _ what?!” _

“He’s not going to club you to death, Simon. Get over it.”

“No--I--but--”

“What’s the worst he could do? He’ll be a guest in our bloody house!”

“Not if I don’t invite him in. You know the threshold thing.”

**BAZ**

Honestly, it was quite sexy of me to accept Bunce’s invitation.

Especially given I get to piss off Snow in the process, and maybe squash any feelings that fester deep under my skin once I see him in person (with the hope that he’s lacking enough charm for it to be squashable). 

Figured that if Snow is just enough of an arsehole, or if he gets completely on my nerves in person, then all my feelings will vanish. Disappear into the air, and leave me with the ability to move on. Or, I suppose, realise I have a type and go on with finding someone who looks similar. And acts similar. Or just hope.

Shit, that’s all I’ve got. Hope.

I’m  _ hoping _ he’ll be a prick. (I’m also hoping Bunce will meet me at the station, given she’d said she’d show me to their flat.)

(And I’m hoping, just a bit, that Snow will rear his head, too.)

(He doesn’t.)

I’m standing at the exit, watching cabs come and go while I wait, sunglasses over my face and hood laying flat over my head as I clack at my mobile. It isn’t too long before I feel a tap at my arm, then a round, spritely face swivels around and stares up to grin at me. She’s shorter than I’d expected her to be, but her outfit’s just as I anticipated. Schoolgirl-esque. Pleated skirt, knee high socks, and those clunky buckle shoes. The only thing truly distinguishable feature about her, giving hint that she’s an actual adult, is the slight look of extended exhaustion on her face.

“Basilton!” She chirps, extending the hand that isn’t holding a disposable coffee cup. “Christ, you’re easy to miss in a crowd.”

I make a show of shifting my bag, hiking it up further onto my shoulder before taking her palm warmly. “Yes well, intentions are intentions.”

Her hand squeezes around mine, the metal of her various, weighty rings pressing to my skin as she gives me a quick up and down shake before dropping it. “Yeah, I get that. A bit hard when you live here, though, you know?”

“From what I recall, yes.” She starts us away, leading down to the tube station. “Although, it’s been quite some time since I’d stayed in the city for longer than a few weeks. I’m sure it must get tiring to have a constant element of hiding.”

I watch as she weaves around a small standing crowd, chatting amongst themselves. She shrugs, head turning back to look at me and talking as if we’re completely alone. Which, I find, a crowded public place feels as though it’s as private as a lone kitchen. The least amount of privacy you can have is when with few people.

“Sort of. Not really, I suppose. Simon’s a bit more open than I am, though. He’ll talk to anybody at the shops, especially if they recognize him. I’ve tried to tell him to keep his wits about him, and if he’s not careful someone might throw him for something, but he’s a bit too careless with himself.” She swipes both of us through, leading me to the platform. “Easy to say that Simon can be a dumbass in his own respects.”

It’s hard not to visibly straighten up when Snow’s mentioned. Like an impulse. A need to seem more composed than he is, even when in the passing mention of him. Superiority complex of the damned, I suppose. “Is he at the flat? Snow, that is…”  _ Of course I’m talking about Snow. Who else would I be talking about?! _

We step onto the car after it pulls into the stop, wiggling around stuffed-in commuters as we stand by open rails. “Should be, yeah. At least, he was home when I’d left. He didn’t really want to come with, although--” she looks up at me through her brows pointedly “--think he has reasons to not want to greet you.”

Shit.

I turn my head, careful not to bump into anyone as I shift my bag again. So that’s that on Snow. Going to be a marvellous experience, then. “Yes, well, he does have a bit of a reason to avoid me.”

“What’s that really about, anyway?”

“I don’t understa—”

“If you don’t mind me getting nosey, which I will regardless if you mind or not, I’m just trying to figure out why two grown men sound like schoolkids in a slap fight.”

“Has Snow not given you reasoning?”

“Oh no, of course he has. Plenty of various reasonings. Just trying to figure out yours.”

I stop, worrying at my lip a bit as the car jostles. There’s a lot to say here. The honest answer. The even more honest answer. The honest answers that I wouldn’t even like to consider addressing.

Then there’s just the plain ones; the simple distractions. “It’s fun. And gets each of us a bit of popularity to have small feud. People give more attention to those who speak in spite to one another, rather than those who uplift.” I look down at her, and she’s staring up, brows both raised. “Humans are simple creatures who derive pleasure from pain. Schadenfreude.”

A slight pause, then she nods, seemingly satisfied. “Guess you’re right, then.” She sways with the car, keeping an eye on the stops. “Bit of a better answer than what he usually gives.”

“What does he usually give?”

She smirks, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Just says you’re a tit who deserves it.”

What do you know, I find myself smiling, too.

We exchange a funny little look, one that I can’t pinpoint beyond the thought that  _ “We both know something” _ . 

The car screeches to a halt and Bunce hooks a hand around my elbow, dragging me out behind her. She’s got the proper boldness for this sort of stuff. Doesn’t seem afraid to shove others out of the way, and takes it upon herself to take me along for the ride. I don’t think I even hear a peep of “Excuse me”, but rather just “Move”.

I’m a bit dizzy from it just as we hit the pavement.

She lets go, exhaling and properly grinning as we walk along as if nothing happened. Which, now, reminds me to be scared of her.

“Don’t worry, we’re not far,” she hums, face whipping towards me as her ponytail bounces and hits the side of her head. I’d want to say her real life personality is cheerful, but given her recent display, I’m starting to believe it balances out where it matters.

“Wasn’t concerned, but thank you for the reassurance.”

She scrunches her nose, leading me down block after block until we get to a decent-seeming high rise apartment building. She leads me in, strolling to the lift and waiting until I’m against the back wall of it before hitting the close door button.

We stand in silence, her checking her mobile while I leave mine unattended.

I try my damndest to check it less often when in the process of traveling. It only seems to make the anxiety worse, needing to constantly know what’s going on, who’s doing what, and what  _ I _ should be doing.

I’d much rather focus on the moment. Or distancing from it.

The room pings as it stops, the doors lagging behind on the open, then showing us out into the hall.

Bunce leads me to a door, getting out her keys and letting us into a room I immediately recognize, yet not in full. Not like this.

I know the little bits and pieces. The floor, the walls, the little island in front of the kitchen. I know the general setup, but not the overall vibe.

And I know the bloke on the couch, who’s perking his head up like a puppy dog the moment I walk in.

He leaps to his feet, wobbling slightly for balance as he opens his mouth, only to have nothing come out. He sort of gestures, then does a half-exposed teeth smile, dropping that, shaking his head and looking utterly confused by himself.

I think I witness the seven stages of grief right in front of me. And it’s painful to watch.

I sigh and extend a hand, hoping to break this pitiful moment (that makes my chest flutter for all the wrong reasons). “Basilton Pitch.”

He lifts his hand, mouth still open and in a hesitant pause before he clasps his palm around mine. “Simon Snow…”

We shake, and I hear Bunce snort beside me. “There. Don’t bite each other’s faces off, would you?” I hear her footsteps go down the hall, leaving the two of us alone.  _ Stupid. _

I’m fucked.

He drops my hand, awkwardly shifting and fixing his slightly twisted shirt.

He’s absolutely gorgeous in person. Barely a couple inches shorter than me, but a bit wider in stature. Strong shoulders, fit forearms, and his hair has a bit more gleam than what’s shown in videos. He’s  _ sturdier _ in person. Fit. Handsome as hell, and has got half the charm to match it.

“So uh…” He says, a bit dumbly. “You’re in my flat.”  _ Christ… _

“Is that where I am? I’d hoped Bunce didn’t lead me to a mediaeval torture chamber. Glad to see she didn’t.” He doesn’t laugh, but I think that’s a half-smile, so it’s still in the clear.

He shifts, looking around and just trying to think up what to properly react with. “Do you… uh… are you… hm…” He stops. He does this a bit in streams, although it isn’t as prevalent in videos (controlled setting, perhaps?). He’s got a bit of a speech lag, and while I’d love to dig a knife further into that, I suppose the best time isn’t when I’m newly the guest in his flat (maybe later--maybe at dinner). “Hungry? Thirsty?”

There it is. “Tea, thanks.” I lower my bag, then set it down by the door before hanging my coat, standing a bit awkwardly by it and being unsure of where to go. So, instead, I just watch Snow mill about in his trackies ( _ God fuck I’m too gay for this _ ).

He stops into the kitchen, filling up their kettle and flicking it on as he roots around the shelves, drawing out mugs and tea bags.

“Earl grey, right?”

“Right--”

“Be-because that’s what it said online,” he says quickly, stumbling over his words in efforts to, what, redeem himself? Explain himself? “Not that I search you up. Of course I don’t search  _ you _ up, but people say things and…” He trails and whips himself around, meeting my raised brow with an even dumber face than earlier.

“What?” I say, bitterly.

“Well… nothing.” He shakes his head. “No, nothing. Just… thought you’d claw at my heart, or something. Rip me apart on sight. Something based around our previous… you know…”

I make a point of clearing my throat, crossing my arms. “You’d assumed I wouldn’t be civil? In your own house?”

“No--well-- _ yeah _ . Sort of, you know--”

“I’ll have you know I’m not a neanderthal. I have at least the common courtesy to be invited into a space and not cause a scene.” He flinches, then rolls his shoulders and sets them back as I finish. “I somewhat expect a  _ host _ to do the same.”

At first, we’re both silent.

Then there’s a few distinct sounds. The sizzle of the kettle, the scratching of his nails against his hair (nervous). The sound of Bunce shuffling in a room down the hall, probably arranging her equipment.

I watch Snow bite at his cuticle, then deflate, arms dropping to his sides.

“Fuck… shit…  _ look. _ Shit. I’m--” He looks at my feet, inhaling, then looking at my face. “Sorry I’m a prick. Didn’t… didn’t mean to just make it seem like that’s who I am. I’m not. I swear--”

“Interesting way to make an apology.”

He makes a sound vaguely in the mix between strangulation and frustration. “What I’m  _ trying _ to say is that I want to make it up. Do something.”

“And what’s that?”

He shrugs, then looks around, hands dangling as he whips about and looks at every surface, seeming to calculate something, then, “How about we collab? You can stay late and we have a drink and do something for my channel.”

“You’re offering me a drink as an apology?” I laugh.

“No, well, yeah. Yes.” He does that sort of half-smile again, this time more deliberately. “Come on, please say yes? Or else my self esteem will shit itself while you and Penny film.”

“As much as I’d love to see that…”

“ _ Please… _ ”

“Alright,” I concede, waving a hand absently towards the living room. “Just, please, not something drenched in glitter. There’s only one time of the year that I’m willing to coat myself in it, and that’s Pride.”

“Yeah no, yeah, valid, yeah,” he stumbles, smiling more. “Can do.”

The kettle clicks off behind him, steam flowing out steadily. He perks up and whips around, going to prepare our mugs.

**SIMON**

Whatever the hell just came over me decided, brilliantly,  _ “Fuck this, I’m getting something mended for you” _ . So, I guess, now I’m fixing him a cuppa and trying to plan a collaboration for us to do tonight.

Fuck my life, I guess?

I try to steady my hands as I set up our mugs, handing his off just as Penny’s sweeping into the room and talking to him about the video.

They break and he goes off to change, taking his bag along into the bathroom (he has a  _ wardrobe attire _ for his bloody appearances? Shit. I’m behind on the game).

I trail, like usual, and stand at the doorway, watching silently as she sits him where she wants him, lights hot on his face (suits his cheekbones and jawline, the bastard). He’s a natural at where he’s at--he’s got a whole wiggle and pose for a camera, getting into position to where he knows his angles, knows how he likes to be seen. Hair kept neat, shirt well tucked and straightened. I don’t quite know how, but he’s seemed to have grown slightly more threatening in the last few moments. Intense--unwaveringly strong. I gulp, clenching my jaw and moving to look away.

“So what have you thought of for titles?” Penny asks, fiddling with the Tripod. “Because  _ I _ was thinking something along the lines of  _ ‘Separation between label and self’ _ .”

“Sounds well fitting.” He adjusts his blazer, sitting it open as right as he can get it. “Queerness does not make a man, but rather simply how he views another. That sort of spiel.”

“Exactly.”

They smile at one another, and I hang back further, unsure of what to bring to the conversation, if anything.

I stick around, though, sipping at my tea and watching the both of them set up and begin.

This is my usual spot--observing. Hanging around listening to the conversation’s ebb and flow into topics that somewhat go over my head at times, but I allow them to go past me. I’m content in spacing out and listening into a good talk while I try to understand, but never quite allow myself to think about.

It’s something that I let slip away, eventually trailing off to my crafts supplies to try to arrange a subject for tonight, whatever that may be.

**BAZ**

It’s a relief when Snow finally heads off, taking my attention to him away with it, but catch him phasing in and out of existence via the open door, passing by with armfuls of supplies. Thankfully, none of which seem to shimmer in the light.

Bunce doesn’t take too long. I’ve known she’s quite like me in work effort. Diligent. Hard-focused. Although, she’s definitely more stubborn than I, which makes the occasion restatement said through clenched teeth funnier than it should be (I don’t laugh, I never let myself truly laugh. You build a character, a defining feature, and mine just doesn’t happen to laugh). I stay cool, collected. Untouchable, by certain standards, with a leveled gaze and pin-straight back. 

We’re done within two hours, against a well-placed backdrop of soft purples and decorative, feminist-based pillows and paraphernalia. A cork wall of fan mail, a clean cut poster here, a hand-painted design there… warm. Welcoming.

I feel misplaced amongst it.

Still, I drag out my mobile for a quick finishing picture with her, just to appease whoever keeps tabs on my existence (I feel sorry for such handful).

Snow reappears as quickly as he was gone, crossing his arms at the doorway as we sit silent on our separate devices, tagging posts and setting captions—

“Oi, can’t you do posts later?” He complains, sounding halfheartedly whiny (Christ, is he always like this?)

“Shush,” Bunce replies snappily, a gentle inflection underneath her sharpness. “People to talk at, friends to talk to.”

“Likewise,” I hum. I’m lying. I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed.

Snow huffs, shifting in such a way that I strain to  _ not _ look at him. Look at the shift in his shoulders, the roll of the fabric against the soft curve of his bicep. The exposed forearms, littered with spots… “I’m hungry,” he cuts in.

I snap back to reality, shooting my eyes up to meet his in a solid, cold stare. “Congratulations, Snow. This is your flat, after all.”

Bunce sighs beside me, heels of her hands digging into her thighs as she forces herself up, twisting around in a stretch accompanied by the soft exhausted yawn from the exertion of mental energy. “He’s saying he wants to go out,” she translates, seeming increasingly motherly.

I allow myself to smile now, raising a brow to the both of them. To Snow pouting. To Bunce grinning.

“I’m just saying I’m hungry,” he adds, letting Bunce brush past him out towards the hallway. He pushes up off the side, then goes to follow, leaving me to stand and do the same. “And it  _ is _ about dinner time…”

Bunce is already grabbing her coat, and I take the note to pick up my own, sliding it over my shoulders as Snow perks up and disappears to his room briefly.

“Are you his watcher? Caretaker?” I quip, peering after him. “Doll maker of sorts?”

“Best friend is the easier answer here, but sometimes I feel like key master would also describe how it feels, on occasion. Like I have to restart him on occasion, or else he'll wind down.”

I smile, again. Key master. Clever. “Fair.”

He steps out in overworn jeans and a hoodie, looking slightly less crumpled than before (and I’m slightly relieved he’d retired the trackies, for now; don’t have much to worry about gawking over them). (Except those bloody jeans look fantastic over his thighs—)

“Well?” he grins. He seems to always be grinning, or starting to grin. “Are we off, then?”

Bunce smiles at him ( _ Key master _ ) and leads us out, shuffling us into the lift as leaving us in manageable silence.

This time, I take it as an opportunity to stare at my phone without feeling quite as overwhelmed, scrolling quickly through the notification stream coming from the recent update of Bunce and I’s picture with the announced collaboration.

Some comments asking for a London vlog. More comments about Snow. More comments  _ tagging _ Snow as well. Eyes emojis. A few eggplants--there’s always eggplants--and then the usual “Excited!” ones.

I glance at Snow himself, and he’s staring down at his screen, unmoving.

He’s got his notification page pulled up as well, and he’s thumbing through the mentions. I take note of his bottom lip, being pulled and worried at with his top teeth as the rest of him remains emotionless. Less cold than I usually am, more unconcerned. Like nothing about it really bothers him.

I try not to pay any more attention to him the rest of the way down.

We pile off at the first floor, standing in the lobby for a brief second as Bunce types out something.

I wait, hands stuffed in pockets as I take in the area.

It’s nice. Not  _ too _ nice, but nice. Decent. A good income’s worth…

“I was thinking about the South Indian place you liked three stops down, Si,” she says behind me, still sounding absorbed into her mobile. “They had that onion stuffed naan that you really liked.”

“I’m okay with whatever. Just hungry…”

“Baz?”

I whip around on my heel, stopping as I face her flat on. She smiles up at me cheesily, nose wrinkling. “Any suggestions?”

I pull a hand out to wave it, purely for effect. “I know a couple good places here and there, but nothing to recommend, so I’ll trust you.”

She nods, exhaling and peering at Snow again as he steps around, seeming a bit antsy. “Right. Three stops, then.”

He gives her an appreciative smile, taking hold of her elbow as we walk out.

I can’t help, for that moment, to feel jealous.

Not exactly of the contact--of Snow holding someone, or someone getting held by Snow, but rather the emotional warmth of it all. The closeness of someone to live with, someone to know you well enough to know what decisions are best for you. Friendship in a closer means, as compared to the quick text for drinks on weekends, and the occasional begrudging holiday party made only better by sneaking past overly stuffy family to get trashed in the pantry.

By what means does it take for such friendship? Are there intricate steps to take? A path destined for someone to care deep enough to know your patterns, to see you in such light?

I try to stop my line of thought, then try to think of who I have, but that falls depressingly short. I’ve got Fiona  _ somehow _ at the top, which was sad enough to make me realise that I should not be thinking this hard on it. I, instead, stare ahead and keep walking. 

It’s a relatively quick ride to get there.

Bunce and Snow take it as an opportunity to chat amongst themselves about something menial, something like groceries and going to a mutual friend’s dinner party. Something or other. Something domestic.

I sit aside, staring out the dirtied windows, and wonder briefly where I lost all my friends in the process.

I try to cut the wallowing once we’re off the platform and back onto the street, walking a few blocks over and stepping into a warmly lit small side restaurant where the three of us are greeted and sat in seconds.

“So, how long are you staying?” Bunce asks, picking up a menu and flipping through it absently. I reach over, grabbing the last off the table as Snow seems to page right to where he wants.

“Two days,” I shrug. “I’ll be with my aunt uptown, although she’s out quite often going to gigs of some sort. Wouldn’t be shocked if she’s doing lines off the chest of some time-worn rocker--” Snow makes a near choking noise, and I ignore it “--so I’ll probably be alone, possibly going to this bar I’m fond of. They do a real classic drag show on Friday nights.”

“Really? Drag?” Bunce remarks, curiosity peaking as she glances between Snow and I excitedly. “I’ve been wanting to go to a proper show! Never quite had the time to really do proper research on the best places in town, since I’m usually running about classes...”

“If you’re free, I’d be open to dragging you along,” I offer, smiling my robotic greeting as a waiter swings across with a pitcher, filling our glasses with water and taking out drink orders.

Snow shifts, clearing his throat, but then promptly offering nothing to say. I raise my brow at him, but Bunce beats me to the chase.

“Would you like to join, Simon?”

He shrugs, then looks down. “Bit to crowded for me, but thanks.”  _ Ah. Doesn’t like being left out. _

I take it at my clue to be silent, looking over my menu and making my decision mentally as they chat back and forth over theirs.

I exhale quietly, looking out the window, then back at them.

I don’t know what to say. I’m shit at these things.

Always have been.

_ “He’s not talking to anyone--he’s hiding, Malcolm. You’ve got to do something about it! Acknowledge it, at least.” _

_ “He’s a child, Fiona. Children shouldn’t talk about death like that.” _

_ “He’s 9. He knows what happened—” _

_ “Don’t. He’s just odd, that’s all.” _

I bite my lip and stare at the tablecloth, rolling the fabric between my fingers where it falls onto my lap. It’s soft, and well embellished, and the texture shifts when—

“Baz?”

I look around. They’re waiting for me to order.

I share what I want quietly, handing over the menu as I exhale and go back to staring at the centrepiece. Both Bunce and Snow fall silent, making me feel a bit choked by the discomfort, so I sigh and try to flit about desperately for something to hold onto verbally.

“How’s schooling going?”

Bunce grins, and starts going on. And on and on.

And to my relief, it’s just her talking, and Snow and I staring and nodding, with him a bit less interested than I am (I’m sure he’s heard it all a million times).

I don’t quite know how to reach out to him yet. It feels awkward, and still strained, but not quite uncomfortable. Not tense, or completely overwhelmingly so, if it is there. Instead, it’s just… unsteady. Unsure. I’m not sure what to refer to, where to start. So… I look.

I steal glances his way, my throat catching in the slightest each time.

I get so strangled so quickly that I have to stop myself. Turn away and rest.

Smile at Bunce, nod along to what she’s saying…

Not let myself gawk too much at something I’ve wanted near me for far too long, or else the mystery fades away.

**SIMON**

Baz keeps staring at me, and I don’t know how to feel about it.

Okay wait, not… not exactly  _ staring, _ but more like opportunistically taking a glance in my direction for longer that the usual split second that I’m used to.

What I’m  _ getting at _ is that Baz is looking at me, and I can’t say I don’t like it.

I try not to meet his glaze, because I’m a bit afraid that’ll scare him away and make him more upset than I did earlier, because I think I’m starting to realise that he might not be a particularly  _ bad _ guy. I mean, he surely isn’t some walk in the park, but I’d always figured that much. But he’s not  _ bad. _ He’s… I don’t know. Human, to some extent.

He nods along to what Penny’s saying, giving her the occasional listening smile and the interested raise of his eyebrows.

I’d worried, and felt, for a minute there, that he wasn’t quite enjoying this. That he might’ve not felt like he was fitting in, but I think it just took a bit of guiding Penny to talk about something she cares about (for what might be hours of talking, but that’s fine) for him to finally relax.

So, I don’t mind him looking.

I think he just might need a minute to look, to maybe see  _ me _ as a person too, then we can work through this. Whatever this is, I guess. (Never really wanted to dig too deep into what this is, and now definitely isn’t the time for me to start.)

Now’s the time for me to eat, for Penny to talk, and for him to listen.

Which is what we do, throughout the whole visit.

I stay silent, shoveling mouthful after mouthful down with a happy hum as Penny rambles, stopping to eat and try to breathe simultaneously. Baz sits there, picking at his meal with a patient look, and I can’t help but feel warm.

Like maybe,  _ maybe, _ this is something that might last…

I smile. I stay silent. And I sit.

We’re out there soon enough, trudging down the street with a comfortable heaviness in my stomach and an arm comfortably draped over Penny’s shoulders, leaned against her and walking in happy silence. Baz stays on her other side, head high and steady as we slink back down into the station and wait for the next ride to come by.

They start chatting as we stand at the platform, and I tune them out in the process, thinking of what to make once we’re back.

Drinks drinks drinks… I shouldn’t anticipate that Baz likes specifically fruity drinks, but  _ I _ like fruity drinks, secretly. They usually work a bit faster, and don’t make me feel sour like beer does, and don’t make me feel sloshy like straight liquor does, either.

I get warm and loose when I drink sweet stuff. Like I can smile on top of every cloud I’ve stared at, wondering how they would feel falling between my hands…

I look at Baz, and think he’d like to have quite the same.

So I stick with it, mentally, and stay silent on our way home.

I go ahead of them off the lift, letting us in and dropping my coat onto the sofa before heading right for the cart we keep everything on.

I hear them chat, and chat until they aren’t chatting anymore, and I turn to only see Baz standing in our living room, looking incredibly out of place while both melting into the scenery all at once. And I smile, waving an arm towards our furniture.

“Take a seat,” I offer. “I’m just making drinks for us.”

He hesitates, then swipes a hand over a cushion before resting down onto it. “Have a list of my options?” He jokes (at least, I think it’s a joke), attention seeming to sweep over our living room as his head turns to and from slowly.

“Nuh-uh.” I go to grab juice from the fridge. “I’m making something, and you’ll drink it, and I don’t care if you think it’s too sweet or frilly… I mean, unless you’re allergic, or something…” I’m pouring the mix into the shaker, suddenly starting to realise the mistakes in what I’m trying to say and sweeping through my words to correct them. “I mean… shit. Fuck. Just… yeah. I’m making something. Trust me.”

I can’t see his expression from here, so I just hope it’s good.

I pour our glasses then go to stand in front of him, offering it with an outstretched hand as I watch him flick his attention away from my set up of supplies, to my hand, then back to the disarray while taking the glass away.

I sit on the ground, despite all the other options available, just to be near what I’ve got for us. “I was thinking we could do these constellation jars,” I hum, glancing down at the set up. It isn’t  _ too _ messy, and I printed out a sheet of constellations for us to pick from, too.

It’s just some sheets of thin metal, some sharpened wooden sticks with various thicknesses, two jars, chalk to plan with, and some battery tea lights to stick inside.

Simple. Easy. Clean.

Nothing too glittery, nothing that might be stereotypical… something he might like.

I go to smile at him, and I can’t read anything on his face.

I wonder if anyone can read him, ever.

I decide in this moment that one day, I want to be able to read him like a book. Cover to cover.

I’ve always been a bit shit at concentrating on books, and getting through is a pain in my arse, but I think… I think it’ll be different when I  _ want _ to get it done.

So I’ve got to work at it, and smile some more.

He simply responds by looking down at his drink, and taking a good sip. I do the same, quickly downing about half before deciding to get up and go fumble about to try to find my camera.

By the time I get back, he’s emptied his glass, and is holding onto it like it might magically refill, so I grab the mixer and mostly top him off before pouring the little bit left into my own.

_ “Are you a lightweight?” _ I want to ask, but I figure that it’s better not now that I ask, but rather I should wait and see if the answer’s given to me.

I sip at my own drink while setting up, going to put the lights up and set the right angles. Arranging the space, cleaning up just a bit  _ (okay, yes, I’m hanging my coat up, Penny) _ and getting the area ready for the two of us to work.

We’re both done with our glasses when I’m fully finished, and I wordlessly deposit those into the sink for someone to clean in the morning before starting the camera and plopping myself onto the floor space in front of it. I pat the ground, reassuringly grinning at Baz before he slowly sinks to the ground beside me, rolling his shoulders and exhaling as he’s scooting beside me and mumbling what sounds like curses about the arrangement.

I wrinkle my nose, smiling a bit. “What? It wouldn’t be a properly  _ me _ video without being on ground!”

“I hate it,” he complains. “It does  _ nothing _ for my back.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” I shrug, smiling wider before clearing my throat and turning to the camera. I inhale, take three seconds, then start. “Hey everyone! Welcome back to Simon’s Arts ‘N Crafts! Today, we have a special guest…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know when the next update is!!! ahah. hahah. i'm sorry. it'll be out eventually, though, i swear :) - xoxox anï

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATES WILL BE IRREGULAR FOR THIS FIC! JUST A WARNING!


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